I Knew She Couldn't Resist My Balls
by Zayz
Summary: Huddy friendship, set around Epic Fail. House invites Cuddy in for meatballs. Let the ball jokes - and awkwardly serious conversation - begin.


A/N: A while ago, I was on a rare House browse, looking for a fun Huddy one-shot, and I stumbled across one that was meant to be like a "missing scene" from _Epic Fail. _You know, when House and Wilson are living in Amber's old place and House takes up cooking. I wasn't crazy about it, but it got me thinking and that thinking got me here.

Similar to this fic I did not like, this takes place around the time House takes up cooking (although plot-wise, that fic is wayyyy different – and this one isn't meant to fit within an episode). Wasn't sure where this was going to go where I started, but this is the final result, for whatever it is. Hope you like it.

Dedicated to my bestie Liz (XxIcexX) in honor of her Sweet 16. Happy birthday, darling! I love you!

* * *

**I Knew She Couldn't Resist My Balls  
By: Zayz**

* * *

Autumn reminds him of many things – chilly evenings with scotch playing piano, smells of cinnamon and burning leaves – but today, it reminds him of meatballs.

Sometimes, when he was very young and his mother was happier and the two of them tried harder, Blythe House would cook meatballs for dinner. She didn't often like to – she found it a waste of time to roll up the meat when you were just going to bite it down and chew when you ate – but if he asked her when she was in just the right mood, she would make them, and smells of spice and meat and tomatoes would fill whatever kitchen he was in at the time.

Tonight is a particularly sentimental autumn night in October. Rain falls in an unstoppable torrent, making all the stray red-orange leaves stick to the road, flat and dirty under passing cars. It's cold, closer to winter than summer, and that familiar dull pain creeps up his leg, as he sits alone on the couch, the sun going down too soon.

Normally, this would be a night for Vicodin. But tonight, it's a night for meatballs.

After a relaxing day of vegetative TV-watching, the world silent without Wilson padding around the place, House ambles into the kitchen to see if he has enough supplies for his latest project. He finds that they're low on a few spices and need ground meat, so he takes a quick trip to the grocery store. They're out of milk, too, but it never occurs to him to pick that up as well.

He returns home and begins the defrosting process. The kitchen is utterly still, cozy but empty, the lights on for no one but him. He puts on an old record to fill the air with the bright sounds of Bob Dylan; and, for good measure, he puts on the TV as well, some sitcom with a fake laugh track, so that the little house is full of noise.

The meat finally defrosts and he begins the process of rolling the meat up into balls. He smirks slightly as several jokes come to mind, but attempts to appreciate the job his mother did when she made these. It isn't exactly riveting.

He adds the spices and cuts the jalapenos and begins to make the sauce. He doesn't have a recipe, exactly, but it feels right, doing it this way. It's original, spontaneous, _his_. He vaguely wonders if Wilson would protest if told he would be having meatballs tonight.

The meatballs boil and the sauce bubbles in its pot, looking something like a potion simmering on the stove. It should be done soon enough. That wasn't so bad, House figures. His mother was just impatient. Meatballs aren't hard; they just take a little time to put together. So did most of the other elaborate dishes she would attempt, but of course she chose to be prejudiced towards the meatballs: they were the only elaborate dish of hers that he actually enjoyed.

Once all the spices are added and it seems just right, House lets them sit and cook quietly on the stove. They would need about an hour; he would check on them periodically, every fifteen minutes. But otherwise, he has nothing else to do with them.

The flurry of distracting activity has dissipated, leaving him bored. The TV still warbles in the corner, the Bob Dylan CD still plays, but something feels empty. Pain creeps up his leg, like ivy curling, growing, threatening to choke him. He can feel it building inside him and he's scared of it.

He may be heading to dangerous places, places he doesn't want to go again. He needs something to do – and fast. He half-considers bothering Wilson at work, and he picks up the phone, about ready to dial the number, when a better idea suddenly pops into his head.

He smiles an ominous smile at his phone as he hangs up and redials another familiar number. The dial tone comes on and he waits.

* * *

The doorbell rings and House lazily limps to get it, still clad in his blue apron. He opens the door to find Cuddy there, standing at his doorstep. She is still in her work clothes and her expression is pleased.

"Hey, do you have the updated patient files for me?" she asks without a single second of beating around the bush. "It's a little late, but I figure it's a small price to pay to get your first bit of paperwork in years."

House considers. "Well…I don't exactly have the paperwork…but come to think of it, since you're already here, I do have something else you could do for me," he says.

Cuddy sighs, utterly exasperated. "Are you kidding me?" she asks incredulously.

"Actually, no, I'm not," says House. "Come on. I need someone to test this sauce and Wilson's going to be working late."

"It's midnight," says Cuddy flatly. "I thought you said you had paperwork for me. That's all I came for."

"I know," says House. "Now come on; that sauce is getting cold."

Cuddy sighs again, this time giving House a dirty, disgruntled look. "You never had any intention of giving me paperwork," she states flatly.

"Nope – none at all," confirms House was a nod. "But you still came. Interesting."

Cuddy hesitates, but that moment – that fleeting, transitory moment of silence, of uncertainty, of uneasiness – inexplicably lets everything lock into place. Like a flash of lightning, it dawns on him exactly why she's here. It's a cold, rainy night in October and the only reason she could have to drive out here, after a long day of work, is because she feels sorry for him.

She feels sorry for him, because he just came out of the mental hospital, his life is in shambles, and she believes that the least she can do is give him a chance when he calls her late at night.

She probably knew there wasn't going to be any paperwork from the start. She probably figured this was his roundabout way of asking for her company – and being a compassionate (read: guilty) person, she indulged him. And that led her here, awkwardly standing at his doorstep, pausing before she said the next word.

"Look, House, I really need to get home," she says. "I have to let my babysitter off duty and I don't have time for this. If you don't have the paperwork, I need to leave."

And something about her delivery of these words – the tone of her voice, the guilt now so obvious on her face, the blush on her cheeks, partially from the cold and partially from something else – kicks up his evil side, like the wind kicking up the wet leaves on the sidewalk.

"This sauce is soon going to be the best thing you've ever tasted," House promises her, his half-smirk full of self-assurance. "Come on. It's getting cold."

Cuddy sighs and instantly, House knows he's won. Her curiosity and empathy get the better of her and she resignedly enters the little hallway with him. She doesn't bother taking her coat off. The two of them enter the kitchen, the TV and Bob Dylan still buzzing animatedly in the insulated air. House opens the lid on the pot containing his meatballs and takes out a spoon from the middle drawer. He fills the spoon with the meatball sauce and brings it to her lips, his hand protectively underneath to avoid spills.

She looks at him slightly reproachfully, for bringing her into the house and feeding her the sauce instead of letting her take it herself, but the expression only lasts a fraction of the second before melting away into something more neutral.

Obligingly, she takes a tiny sip of the sauce, letting it sit on her tongue, flooding her mouth with flavor. To her (slight) surprise, House is right: this is pretty much the best thing she has ever tasted. It's rich without being heavy or overwhelming; the spices are savory without setting her tongue on fire.

"My God," she says, dipping her spoon again for more sauce. "Where did you get the recipe for this?"

"I didn't have one," he admits. "I just threw it together."

Although his tone is casual, she can tell he's quietly pleased by her enthusiastic approval. Something sweet smolders behind his eyes, plays around the corners of his mouth. She finds herself smoldering and smiling back, just because it's so nice to see him relaxed. It's moments like these when she remembers that it's not all bad – that in the pie-chart of their relationship, the snarky remarks and misery only make up a fraction of the whole.

"Well, it's amazing," says Cuddy. "You were right. It's pretty much the best thing I've ever tasted."

"Don't let your ex-boyfriends hear you say that," remarks House with an exaggerated wink.

Cuddy allows herself to laugh. "No," she says. "I won't."

She still wears her coat and he still wears his apron, the two of them standing casually by the counter. The TV still plays, but the Bob Dylan CD ends, the last note wavering and dying as the two look at each other, seemingly unsteady.

House pauses, then pulls out a fork from the drawer. He uses it to stab the meatball and take a large bite out of it. She watches as he chews and swallows the meat, evaluating it and seemingly passing it as eatable.

"Mmm. The rest of it is pretty good too," he tells her. "And I'm hungry. I'm going to have some. Do you want a plate?"

This time, Cuddy is visibly guilty, the conflict even more visible in her face than it was at the door. Maybe it's because he is already sensitized to its existence; maybe she is just more overt here under the glare of his kitchen lights than under the shadows of the porch. But he can see the cogs turning in her head, fighting back and forth, trying to make the right decision in the midst of an awkward circumstance.

"Look, House," she says after several moments of awkward silence. "They're good meatballs and everything, but I really do need to get going. My babysitter charges overtime."

"Four meatballs? Three?" Ignoring this, House examines Cuddy's hips critically. "You know, I'll make it two. Those hips don't need any more red meat to fatten them up."

She smirks slightly, but says, "I'm sorry, but I really do have to go. Babysitter. And baby."

"I can't let you leave unless you experience my balls," House informs her very seriously, his eyes widening with would-be innocence. "It wouldn't be fair."

She chuckles unwillingly. "You're disgusting," she says.

"They're hot and drenched in my special sauce," he insists. "They've been simmering for hours, waiting for you."

"I'm leaving!" she says, though she's still laughing. "Good night!"

"My balls are going to miss you!" House complains as he follows her down the hallway. "Do it for the balls, Cuddy! Stay for the balls!"

"I came for paperwork," she reminds him flatly, though her eyes bubble over with humor.

"But you can stay for the balls," House responds. "They're good balls, too. You can have another taste if you're not sure."

She gives him another smirk from over her shoulder as she opens the front door. "I'm sorry," she says again.

The look on his face is so strange, as she lingers their in his doorway. He's leaning on the border of the house and the outside, something sweet, affectionate, beyond his usual surface-level depth peeking out shyly from behind his electric blue eyes. He's so familiar, smelling of meatballs, watching her go. While he loves making ball jokes and teasing her, she can't shake that look on his face. She can't go.

So she gives in. She says, "Okay. Maybe a couple of meatballs won't hurt."

That quiet pleasure of his – the one that makes everything worth it with him, if you know where to look – ignites behind his face and she is instantly pleased with her decision as well.

"I knew you couldn't resist my balls," he tells her as he leads her back to the kitchen.

Once they're back inside, he restarts the CD and lets it play, as he takes out two plates, two forks and distributes the meatballs between them. When he hands her the plate, she sees that he has condescendingly given her three. She must work hard to resist the urge to snort.

The two end up sitting on opposite counters instead of at the table, legs dangling to the floor, quietly eating their meatballs to the sounds of Bob Dylan. The silence is nice, comfortable even, but of course that can't last: after his first meatball has been consumed, House decides to ask the question currently on his mind.

"So, Cuddy," he says.

"Yes?" She looks up.

"I'm curious," says House. "Are you here eating my meatballs because you want to be, or because you feel sorry for me?"

Cuddy stares, suddenly looking caught, somehow. She stops eating the meatball she has been breaking and looks like she's quickly calculating her response. It amuses him to see it, carefully watching those wrinkles between her eyebrows, waiting. He already knows the answer, but he wants to hear it from her. It's the content of the lie that counts.

"I'm here because I want to be," she says unconvincingly. "You invited me in and I figured my babysitter can hang in there another half hour or so."

House pops a meatball whole into his mouth and takes several awkward seconds to chew it up and swallow it down. It registers arbitrarily, as he does so, that these meatballs are actually quite fantastic. He'll have to write this recipe somewhere for future usage.

Finally, then, when his mouth has cleared, he points out, "You were all gung-ho to leave before you said yes."

Cuddy's cheeks redden almost imperceptibly, but 'almost' never slips by him. Never.

"You asked me to," she says. "I felt bad that I had the time and I said no."

"You're usually quite happy to shove me out of your office when you have the time."

She reddens further, this time more obviously, and he finds that he's enjoying himself, pressing her gently but relentlessly. He's always enjoyed asking all the tough questions; and watching her here, the heat behind her face rising, forced to be honest as her lies come up short, he's back in control, at no one's mercy but his own. That feels good.

But with Cuddy, he's well aware that down doesn't directly translate to out.

"I'm not entirely sure why this is even relevant," she says. "Why should it matter to you that I'm here?"

"Because there's always a reason," he says, somewhat grave.

He catches her eye and the two of them hold there, her slate irises boring into his Caribbean blue ones and vice versa. The tension sits like a thousand pound elephant between them and doesn't let up, not for a second. It would cost too much. Even if they're in his kitchen, the atmosphere supposedly relaxed, listening to Bob Dylan late at night while sitting on his counters, eating his meatballs, there's plenty to lose in giving up.

But Cuddy surprises him, suspending the tension with a glimmer in her eye much sooner than he would have, and she says, "It was the balls that got me."

House allows himself a smirk. "That's usually what it is."

At this, her face breaks into a smile, a real one, and nine hundred pounds inexplicably evaporate off the thousand-pound elephant between them. He allows himself a slight smile as well in response and the two of them polish off the last of their meatballs, setting the plates down beside their legs, just sitting for the pleasure of it now that the food is finished.

It's strange, he considers, as she bounces her heel against the dishwasher beneath her, that they are here tonight. He can see the rain beginning to fall again in the window behind her, but he can also see the back of her head reflected in the window, the two images converging somehow.

It's been a strange evening, but it feels right, sharing at least a part of it with her. He suddenly remembers that this is the first personal time he has legitimately spent with her since his institutionalization back in May. It's fitting that they don't talk about it, though. They don't usually talk about the things that matter and this matters more than most of the things they have shared. If they talked about it, they would go to places neither had any wish to revisit at present, and it was better that they didn't go there. It just was.

By chance, House's eyes glance up and they meet Cuddy's just as they do the same. She parts her lips, as though she'll speak, as though she'll say something to shatter their fragile quiet among the atmospherics of the kitchen; but another noise precedes her.

It's the noise of the front door opening.

By instinct, both glance back down the hall at the door, which has now opened to reveal a very wet James Wilson, clutching his jacket over his head. He stamps his feet on the mat, drowning out the music, drowning out the TV, drowning out House and Cuddy and their famous silence; and only now, with Wilson returning, is it clear just how soft the whole scene had previously been.

"House?" Wilson calls. "House, where are you?" He takes off his wet coat and shoes and stuffs them in the front closet.

"In the kitchen," House calls back.

"I smell something…spicy," says Wilson, sniffing the air as he ambles down the hall. "Have you been cooking?"

Only now does his gaze finally fall upon the current arrangement of the kitchen and he stops dead, slightly pink with rain, cold and embarrassment.

"Cuddy," he says, his tone unsubtly bewildered. "Hi."

"Hi," she says, going as pink as he.

"Um…what's going on here?" asks Wilson, looking from House to Cuddy to the counter to the stove and back.

House now glances at Cuddy, who glances back.

"I…was just leaving," she says hastily, jumping off the counter and grabbing her coat. "Good night, Wilson. House."

She smiles, but it's a painful effort now, nothing like it had just been. She makes for the door with the air of someone trying to slip out as quietly as possible, but she doesn't leave fast enough to miss the resulting conversation between House and Wilson:

"What was she doing here?" Wilson asks House.

House doesn't skip a beat in saying, quite solemnly, "I knew she couldn't resist my balls."

And as Cuddy leaves, her cheeks bright red, her hair instantly drenched by the rain outside, she knows that Wilson is utterly silent with confusion.

She leaves them at it and flees home to her babysitter, the autumn rain continuing to fall, the wet leaves sticking to the tires of her car as she drives quietly into the night.

* * *

A/N: So this is bizarre and slightly unrefined, mostly because I just really wanted to finish it, for Liz and for myself, because this piece has been sitting on my hard-drive for months. It could be considered a little OOC and the pace was a little weird. But you know what? It's done and I think it's kind of cute anyway. So I hope you liked it for what it was: a valiant effort by a teenage girl to give her friend a Housian birthday present.

Cheers. And again, Liz – happy birthday.


End file.
